A Conflagration of Words
by BlvdofWritingDreams23
Summary: In 1775, Alfred knows better than any that fear chokes the denizens of Boston. War is on everyone's minds, so when the community gathers for services held annually in memoriam of those who died in the Bloody Massacre five years ago, everyone expects trouble when they see the redcoats at the pulpit. Naturally. (Oneshot)


"_The tyranny imposed on the soul by anger, or fear, or lust, or pain, or envy, or desire,  
__I generally call 'injustice'."  
_– _Plato_

"_Those who have governed the town for years past…seem determined to bring total destruction upon us…. I am afraid we shall experience the worst [of] evils, a civil war."  
_– _John Andrews, 12 June 1774_

**Monday, 6 March 1775**

The meetinghouse brimmed with faces old and familiar, nearly the same as those who had heated Old South on a cold winter's night over a year ago. The early spring day had dawned unseasonably warm, however, and the five thousand crammed into the church's elevated galleries and lower chamber had created a premature summer. Sweat slid down the back of Alfred's neck and along his face, darkened his queued hair and plastered his shirt and breeches to his skin. Those around him shone with it, too, yet none moved or complained.

None would, so long as the man elevated on the black-draped pulpit continued preaching and moving among the officers seated on the steps around him. Their multitudes of gazes—three dozen pairs—followed him as closely as Alfred's swept over them. No doubt they expected worse to fall from the speaker's lips—a single word to ignite the flame, invite turmoil. _Any excuse._ One misstep was all it would take.

The Bostonians encasing the officers weren't in any better a position, if only farther away and slightly less composed. So many of them held bludgeons and sticks that the humid air should have been ripe with tension—and the service had certainly begun that way—but it was Joseph Warren at the pulpit, in the deepest breadth of the hollow chamber. Everyone may have expected trouble when they entered through Old South's doors that calescent morning, but as so many present well knew, if anyone could diffuse the potential for conflict, it was him: the town's physician, poet and leader, made stronger for his ability to keep the peace rather than weld weapons, to bear placation without submission. He represented precisely the kind of fortitude Boston, guarded by thousands of little red pests strong enough to cut them off at the Neck, would be desolate without.

And he was wearing a toga.

His entrance had been just as dramatic a statement, emerging before the gathering through the window above the pulpit because the doors became too crowded to admit entry. Now, however, he was a Roman—Cato in the eighteenth century, with a handkerchief, breeches and a voice like so many trusted Christian ministers—so Alfred assumed. In spite of his peoples' fiercely religious backgrounds, he had never been one to attend Sunday services—not even for Reverend Cooper, at Brattle Street Meeting, much to many of his leaders' disgruntlement—and he had never seen nor read _Cato,_ despite its popularity.

Arthur wouldn't let him, and by the time Alfred expressed real interest, it was clear where his reasons had lain.

He wasn't here; he'd left before the bastard Hutchinson had in May last year and hadn't returned since. Of added benefit was the fact that few of the officers now present had resided in Boston long enough to know whose son Alfred was. Most, if any, understood him solely to be a proud, rebellious youth too entrenched in the breedings of Doctor Warren and Sam Adams' seditious notions of liberty. Nonetheless, Alfred kept to the shadows by the meetinghouse walls, as much an act of personal security—for there were people here who _did_ know who he was—as it was symbolic.

It had been over a year now, but Alfred still felt Arthur's last steps leaving his land as vividly as if those footprints were permanently emprinted upon his skin. It felt as though eternity passed between when he left the house with his possessions and when his last stomping step departed the dock at Long Wharf, but it was only when the ship left the harbor that it all rushed in: the relief, the realization of how much Alfred feared he would stay, the liberation_._ _Finally, _Alfred was free to believe what he wanted without having to hide it!

That, however, had been three months before General Gage arrived with his regiments and installed a military occupation of the town. Soon after that came the Port Bill, and then the Government Act which dared to deprive Bostonians of their liberties at their heart—banning town meetings and forbidding elected Court. It had been difficult to gauge how much of Alfred's incensed response had been his own, uninfluenced by outside opinions and forces, but a part of him still wondered how much Arthur had known, if he could have predicted the damage the laws would incite to relations.

If he comprehended how much Alfred had learnt from him over the years.

Nonetheless, the yeomanry who ran the movement from the countryside had largely seen to rectifying the issue of no town meetings and securing the resignations of the mandamus councilors dissolute enough to claim the job, but relations with Britain remained the poorest they had ever been, and Alfred couldn't help but feel that today's performance—commemorating the night five men died, the day eight regulars and their captain were arrested, and the nights and days that followed them all in anger and persecution—was the last opportunity any of them had to set things right.

"Our country is in danger. Our enemies are numerous and powerful, but we have many friends, and with them heaven and earth shall aid in the resolution," Warren declared, gesturing with the polish and charisma of a natural-born actor and beloved citizen. His voice echoed across the chamber, returning to him in hisses and hushed tones that Alfred forced himself to shut out as Warren went on.

They were right to be afraid. War—civil war—had become whispered words, a fearful, increasingly likely possibility that Warren had been forced to prepare for these past weeks. In that time Alfred had often found himself trembling without knowing why. He had caught himself absently, if frustratedly, trying to understand what his existence meant for Massachusetts and other British American colonies, whether destiny writ that he was supposed to remain in the grip of his damned father's Empire. Sam and Mr. Hancock both insisted that none others like him had accompanied delegates last autumn to the Continental Congress—that they had seen. That didn't mean they didn't exist, but then—according to Sam—no one else had belied awareness that beings like Alfred existed, and both claimed they had provided openings for delegates to confirm if such did.

Did that not mean, then, that Alfred represented more than the Massachusetts Bay Province? What more proof could the Sons of Liberty need?

Had Arthur known? Was that why—

Alfred shut his eyes, permitting Warren's uncommonly nasal tone to flood back inside and sober his racing mind, even as Warren vociferously described widows and orphaned children kneeling on red cobblestones, watching the death throes of a husband and parent, even as he anguished for the fathers lost and mourned along that dark night and ensuing, inevitable dawn.

Alfred had confided in the doctor about his fears, allowed himself to say out loud that the thoughts he'd once believed were solely the voices of Massachusetts' neutral or loyalist were not from the bay area at all but from a state beyond province borders. From New York. Rhode Island. Connecticut. Once, he thought he heard something from as far south as Virginia—perhaps one of the Carolinas.

Warren hadn't had an answer for him, but, where Sam likely would have been excited by the possibility and used it as fodder for the cause, Joseph had reacted in a more grounded manner, solemn, as if Alfred's introspective unease and instability meant that war _was_ inevitable. And it would be horrible, waged against one of the world's strongest armies and navies, and in spite of knowing their tactics, knowing their organization and weaknesses, the fact that Great Britain's full might would be turned against _his own people_…

What if they lost? The thought terrified Alfred if he let himself dwell on it too long, but there was a point where every possibility must be considered, even the worst and most unlikely…. Arthur had taught him that. He was wrong about so many other subjects—especially regarding Massachusetts, whom, despite everything its people may have advocated in the past, may have allowed the destruction for, Alfred could only love and vow to protect with the same depth of feeling as the animosity he held for the fetters being foisted upon him—but even he had to admit that Arthur's knowledge of war and combat far surpassed Alfred's own. At least, for now.

So, just this once, he listened. He considered the consequences.

If he lost, Arthur would never let him out of his sight again. More than likely he would drag him back to England and lock him inside his home, a great dim castle as torturous to Alfred's free spiritedness as the Tower had been to so many lives, until Alfred either faded from memory or found a way to try, try again until he succeeded. Which brought Alfred to an alternate possibility… Many times it was small-voiced and apprehensive in the back of his mind…

What if he won?

"Britain, united with these colonies by commerce and affection, by interest and blood, may mock the threats of France and Spain—may, indeed, be the seat of universal empire," Warren intoned, sounding almost like a Muse reading the stars for stories of the future, "but should America, either by force or those more dangerous engines of luxury and corruption, ever be brought into a state of vassalage, Britain must lose her freedom also."

Alfred distinctly remembered composing that part with him. Neither had been overwhelmed with pride at the thought, nor with much of what they inscribed before. But, for the sake of preserving what little virtue remained between the lands on each side of the Atlantic, it must be uttered.

If he won in war against Great Britain, Alfred could become a wholly new nation, construed from the pieces, but he wouldn't have Arthur as a resource. Quite likely, with the direction their relationship had beenprogressing—for years now—Arthur would never speak to him again, and was that what Alfred wanted, truly? Could he survive without the guidance of another representation—the guidance of the only person he had known to be a father? The advice of mortal men was one thing, but it wasn't enough. It would never bear the wisdom of a life experienced through centuries, not decades, nor through wars in absolute confidence that he would survive long enough to carry out its end, instead of fearing every day to be his last.

In the aftermath of what quickly came to be called The Bloody Massacre, he had relied on Arthur to cope with the madness, the swell of passions and cold-blooded words that he couldn't hold at bay. It hadn't always gone well—sometimes they dug in too deep and Alfred lashed out, holding his father responsible for everything that had occurred since the War ended—all the taxes, the financial plight of his poorest citizens, the redcoats on their doorstep and the havoc they brought with them in '68. Sometimes he blamed him for other catastrophes. The destruction of his original people, the Massachuset.

More than ever before, Alfred believed it. All of it. For the 140 years he had lived in Arthur's guardianship, Arthur had been adamant that Alfred not be involved in the governorship of the colony, insisting that he wasn't yet old enough to make those informed decisions, or that none of the governing bodies—the governor, the legislative courts, Parliament—would hold him in earnest.

Alfred may have been older than everyone in this room, but he was still so young to the world. Could he grow without the secrets and knowledge Arthur possessed? He didn't have a mother anymore. He barely had a brother. Yet, was it possible that he could succeed with only that which Arthur had passed to him in childhood? Europe would almost certainly laugh at him for his audacity, and yet…

He knew enough to understand all he was risking if he pressed forth with his protests, and yet…

He had come _so far_ but still hadn't achieved what he and his people were asking for.

And yet.

"An independence of Great Britain is not our aim." Warren's declaration cut through like a bayonet, and Alfred's head jerked up, eyes widening. What was he doing? This wasn't in the speech they had written! Others around him were drawn from their musings, too, but none appeared visibly or mentally caught off-guard.

If anything, it was wariness and relief that filled their bellicose veins as the trusted Dr. Warren continued, "No, our wish is that Britain and the colonies may, like the oak and the ivy, grow and increase in strength together." His gaze was on Alfred long before the latter met it, but it took only a moment to understand why Warren chose to add the words without his input: Alfred dropped his gaze in time to see a captain of the Royal Welch Fusiliers yank a white handkerchief—Warren's, he realized—off his hand with a disdainful frown, revealing the lead bullets arranged on his palm underneath.

His eyes widened further at the sight. _He was wise to include this,_ Alfred thought, as his hands and arms tightened across his scrawny chest, as his brow creased and his teeth sunk into his lip hard enough to draw blood, _even if it should signify my sacrifice. _

"…whereby the unnatural contest, between a parent honored, and a child beloved, may probably be brought to such an issue as that the peace and happiness of both may be established upon a lasting basis.

"But, if these pacific measures are ineffectual, and it appears that the only way to safety is through fields of blood—" Warren didn't point to or indicate the bullets he'd covered—that would have been foolish in this collective, not to mention reckless—but the implication was not lost on any in the crowd that high morning, and his cautioning tone took on a new tenderness, demonstrating the seemingly infinite empathy he possessed for humanity—whether an individual pledged himself to the cause of Liberty…or to Loyalty.

Without looking, Alfred saw the consternation and gravity taking hold in his powdered features. "_I know you _will not turn your faces from your foes, but will, undauntedly, press forward—until tyranny is trodden underfoot, and you have fixed your adored goddess, Liberty, fast by a Brunswick's side, on the American throne."

Warren didn't stop there—like Sam, he always went on—but it was upon those final words that Alfred's mind latched, reciting again and again.

_The American throne. _

It was Warren's answer—it must be: that maybe Alfred was right. Maybe the reason he was the only representation in New England and the southern colonies is because he was supposed to be. Matthew, his brother, whom he and Arthur had always thought to represent another colony—New Hampshire, perhaps, or Rhode Island—had not been, at the end. When he departed with Arthur for Quebec in 1759 and failed to return, all Arthur had offered to explain away his absence was that Matthew's constituents were farther north than they had previously believed.

Loath though he was to admit it, Alfred was beginning to wonder if Arthur had been right. Matthew had never heard the voices that Alfred did, and when he did hear something, the noise never belonged to any of the surrounding colonies.

None of what he heard had made sense at all, actually, because it hadn't been English.

Arthur had known the language. He never confirmed it, but—ever since the first time, at their supper table, when he hesitated upon hearing the supposed nonsense Matthew heard fluttering about his mind—Arthur understood the things he requested Alfred's elder brother to repeat. Alfred was certain of it.

So many secrets. So much he left without sharing.

And it made him so—so _angry._

Warren spoke for several minutes more before conceding his place with a bow to the applause of the town. As the lasting echoes began to die, Sam rose from the pews and paused beside the pulpit, thanking the good Doctor Warren for his spirited oration and proclaiming the gratitude of the town in his favor. Then, in celebratory tone, he added, "I believe it prudent and expected by all in attendance that another oration should be delivered on the fifth of March next, to commemorate the bloody massacre of the fifth of March in the Year of our Lord one thousand seven-hundred and seventy." He hadn't finished before the officers surrounding him on the steps began to protest, hissing and crying "_Fie! _Oh fie!"

Alfred understood their meaning, albeit only because he had lived so long listening to their sorts of voices and ways of speaking. Others, however, did not have his experiences with the various English dialects, and the first reactions of the crowd were an uncontrolled burst inside his head. Hissing, Alfred's hands shot up to clutch it, and he collapsed to his knees.

_Fire! Oh fire!_

He was still on the ground when the screaming began—when people clambered for the entrances and windows, dispersing in the chaotic, moblike masses that Warren averted with patient dichotomies time and time before. Bludgeons and weapons were forgotten as mortal instinct overrode even the most basic distrust, everyone fleeing together in desperate hope of escaping the threat of the all-consuming flame as it reached for their skins and the kindling sheaths they called clothes.

_Fire_ was the common cry, ignition and fear the only responses.

Somewhere in the distance there was a drumming, thumping sound—like marching footsteps—and then Sam and Mr. Hancock and all the other town leaders starting running, too.

Through it all Alfred remained where he was—the onslaught inside his brain made it impossible to move, but as Warren shoved his hands under his arms and forced his legs into action, hurtling for the same window above the pulpit, a single, simple statement pushed its way through Alfred's lips:

"Sam—is an _idiot._" Didn't he know?—never use the term _bloody massacre_ around a gathering of British officers—especially after your compatriot has just cautioned the whole damned lot against responding to aggravation with war.

Warren's response, as he shoved open the sash and both aided and hauled Alfred onto the sill, was un-ministerial but politic. "Yes, in certain respects, but I believe it is wiser that we do not inform him of it, else his response occasion further outrage among the public. Now, by heavens, Alfred, we mustn't delay, or else we will surely be put in shackles with the rest."

* * *

**Footnotes:**

**1\. Overview of the Boston Massacre, 5 March 1770: **To this day it remains speculation as to who and how the first shot was fired, but the event began when one Edward Garrick complained to Sentry Hugh White, stationed at the Customs House in the center of town, that his commanding officer had not paid him for a wig he ordered. Following the conclusion of the Seven Years'/French and Indian War, the colonies—like Britain—fell into recession, so every penny counted. A few hours earlier a small mob had formed around a regular who had asked for work at a ropewalk—i.e. taking a job that, in their eyes, belonged to Bostonians, not the regulars. So, when Sentry White hit Garrick in the face with the butt of his musket and another regular ran him off at bayonet-point, it sparked another, bigger riot. The members of it began pelting White and other sentries with snowballs and rocks. When backup arrived for White—including a Captain Preston, who ordered White and the others with him to take defensive positions, and eventually a Justice of the Peace to read the Riot Act—it served only to anger the mob further. At some point, a wooden club was thrown, and the next anyone knew some of the regulars were firing without orders.

The arrest and trial that followed of Captain Preston and eight of his men was contentious and divisive—especially as the propaganda generated by the Sons of Liberty (perhaps most famously Paul Revere's engravings) blew up the incident into purposeful, full scale massacre, hence "The Bloody Massacre"—but John Adams and renowned lawyer Josiah Quincy Jr. took the case and managed to acquit Preston and four others, while two more were convicted on charges of manslaughter—ordinarily a capital sentence—but by invoking "the benefit of the clergy" the two men were discharged from service and branded on the thumb with an "M".

The "havoc [the redcoats] brought with them in '68" is a reference to the _Liberty _incident, in which a riot erupted after the vessel was seized for a customs infraction and under suspicion. The violence ultimately contributed to the decision to send several regiments of troops to Boston, a move which, as Nathaniel Philbrick puts it, "made the Boston Massacre an inevitability" (37).

**2\. Joseph Warren's Oration: **Every year following the Boston Massacre in 1770, an oration was held on its anniversary to commemorate the event, as much a political act as it was in memoriam of the five men who died. By March 1775, tensions between the British regulars and the Boston/Massachusetts public were high enough that warfare had become a very real possibility, which is part of why Sam Adams (the ceremony's moderator) selected Dr. Warren, who had proven through his reputation and leadership capacities to be able to diffuse bad situations. He was a man who wrote with passion, and so rather than focus on the bloodshed and disruption that occurred that night, he focused on the families who lost loved ones. Having lost his own father when he was fourteen (which was common knowledge to the town's residents), it was easy for him to identify with the widows and orphaned children he spoke about, thus connecting himself with his audience.

In the thirty-five minutes it took, his speech was not without warning to the 3,000-strong British army residing in Boston, but it was respectful. It was not until Samuel Adams rose afterward and used the term "bloody massacre" that things became heated.

The British officers—and there were about forty present—were purposely invited to sit near the front in order for the patriot leaders to keep an eye on them. Given the purpose of the event, it was expected that they would cause trouble, and at one point it was dared—when a captain of the Royal Welch Fusiliers raised a hand full of bullets—but it was not until Sam's choice of words that they expressly protested.

At this time, Bostonians had distinctly different accents than Englishmen, so while the officers, in crying "Fie!", were basically saying "Damn you!", their postvocalic "r"s turned the word into "Fire!" in Bostonian ears. They thought the building was about to go up in flames, and chaos ensued. The misinterpretation was soon realized, however, and the meeting was adjourned properly once everyone returned to the chamber.

**3\. A drumming, thumping sound, like marching footsteps: **During the chaos of the "fire", the British Forty-Third Regiment was returning from a drill march in the countryside, which meant their fifers and drummers were blaring as they passed by. It had been a long-held superstition and rumor by this point that General Gage was going to call for Samuel Adams' and every patriot leaders' arrest, and that was exactly where the leaders' minds went when they heard the drummers, which is why they too began to evacuate with the crowd.

4\. "**Fast by a Brunswick's side": **I have no idea what this means or why Warren used it. In research, the closest reference to "a Brunswick" I have found mentioned is as a New England stew or as the English name for German duchy, Braunschweig, later incorporated into Lower Saxony. It is included, however, because omitting it would not remain true to the story's historical setting and accuracy.

**5\. Royal Welch Fusiliers:** Formed in 1689 as a line infantry regiment in the Prince of Wales' division, they were one of the British Army's most experienced regiments at the time, seeing action in conflicts such as those for the Spanish and Austrian Successions and the Seven Years' War. In a month's time would also see action at Lexington and Concord.

**6\. Why the toga?: **_Cato_ was a very popular play in the 18th century, published in 1713 by Joseph Addison and detailing the last days of the republican Stoic, Marcus Porcius Cato Uticensis, as he opposes Caesar's tyranny in Rome. Warren had performed this several times in college at Harvard, and, according to Nathaniel Philbrick in his account of this oration, a toga "was what was worn by a citizen of Rome and distinguished him from a soldier and slave" (97). Earlier in the book Philbrick does go into the contradictions of the Americans' notions of "liberty", but I have not discussed that as regards the enslavement of African-Americans in the story due to setting and themes. I believe Alfred would be aware of it—if not then, then later—and disagree with it, but it's also a matter of where his head is at that moment. In this case, with relations the way they are, I think Alfred would be more concerned about his position and future.

7\. "**A voice like so many trusted Christian ministers": **Since the 17th century, the typical way of preaching in New England was with a high, nasal-pitched voice, which is what Warren used during his oration.

8\. "**the bastard Hutchinson": **It must be said that while Thomas Hutchinson's actions weren't necessarily dastardly or even vicious—he was Massachusetts-born and privately disagreed with such laws as the Stamp Act—he became one of the most reviled figures in Boston, largely due to propaganda, Sons of Liberty-instigated scandal, and his position as Royal Governor. In other words, he was charged with enforcing Parliament's laws (the taxes) and carrying out its wishes, which, by the 1770s, meant he was as corrupt as the rest of them in Bostonian eyes. He was replaced by General Thomas Gage in May 1774, much to Boston's relief—until the Port Bill, Government Act, and military occupation (at least four regiments' worth, in the beginning) arrived with him.

**9\. Port Bill and the Massachusetts Government Act:** The Port Bill is probably self-explanatory: it shut down Boston's many wharves and docks. Beginning 1 June, everything coming into Boston from the Atlantic had to first go through Marblehead, north of the city. It is easy to see how this would damage Boston's commercial prosperity, as well as its artisans, dock workers and other occupations reliant on a thriving port, but it was the Government Act that truly angered Bostonians. As described, town meetings were banned with the exception of one "pro forma" gathering to elect town officials; the upper chamber of the General Court (Massachusetts' legislature) was appointed by the King via a writ of mandamus (hence "mandamus councilors") instead of being nominated by the lower chamber, the House of Representatives; the selection of jurors in higher courts were subject to English authority; and Salem became the new seat of provincial government. Effective in August, it was perceived as a stripping of Massachusetts' liberties—not to mention contrary to British law—and that was precisely what Boston's "rebel" leaders had been fighting to prove and prevent for nearly a decade. Granted, the hardline decision had as much to do with the Boston Tea Party and the violent tarring-and-feathering of customs officer John Malcom as prior issues and grievances; the mob violence in general had pushed Parliament to declare Massachusetts in a state of insurrection back in 1768. Even so, many felt it was unnecessarily harsh.

It was at this point that Sam Adams urged the province's yeomanry—countryside landowners—to step up. They did, ultimately coming to lead the resistance movement, albeit they too often took an uncompromising stance when it came to the Loyalists. This is part of the reason—accounting also for prior incidents and abuses—that many of the thirty-six mandamus councilors selected refused to take their positions. Those that did, however, were quickly made to resign at the hands of the yeomanry and, in one instance, at the behest of and risk of outburst from 4,000 people.

Towns across Massachusetts also found ways to hold meetings regardless of the law, the courts were shut down, and in Concord, a Provincial Congress convened in secret for the first time in October 1774. These persistent breaches of the law ultimately led to the British Prime Minister, Lord North, to declare the province in open rebellion on 2 February 1775.

**10\. The Massachuset** were a semi-nomadic Native American group centered around the Massachusetts Bay area, and the group to which I believe Alfred and Matthew would have been born, probably around the same time Columbus landed in the Caribbean (I also believe modern-day Mexico probably would have been born around this time, too, as well as others in Central and South America). When colonial settlement began on their grounds, disease began to take its toll, as it would with so many other groups. Outbreak first occurred in 1617, and by 1633 a smallpox epidemic wiped out most of its remaining members. As for why Matthew was born there and not north of the St. Lawrence, I hold the theory that nations are born from the womb, and when they are it signifies great change is occurring or about to occur. That being said, the Massachuset spoke a dialect of Algonquian, the most widespread language of the eastern woodlands peoples and particularly throughout Canada, spanning as far west as Alberta and as far northeast as Newfoundland and near Quebec's northern coast. Given how the two countries developed, it made sense to me that Matthew, even if he was born in America, could still represent Canada if the linguistic base of his native language had such a large presence in what would become his lands.

**11\. When Matthew went to Quebec: **This is in reference to the Battle of the Plains of Abraham, otherwise known as the Battle of Quebec, during the French and Indian War. I imagine he would insist on going with Arthur in order to confirm his suspicions about who he actually represents. By now he's known for some time that he doesn't hear what Alfred hears, and he's met France, so he knows that what he hears is French, but in his mind he needs to see and feel it to believe it; Matthew, unlike Alfred, is not one for abstracts. As for why he didn't return… I think it would be easier if you read my other story, _We Meet Again—_at least to chapter seven, or just chapter seven period. That will explain everything.

_Information Sources:  
_1\. "All About History: American Revolution First Edition" – Future Publishing Limited  
_2\. The American Revolution: What Really Happened, _by Alan Axelrod  
_3\. Bunker Hill: A City, A Siege, A Revolution, _by Nathaniel Philbrick  
_4\. Dr. Joseph Warren: The Boston Tea Party, Bunker Hill, and the Birth of American Liberty, _by Samuel A. Forman  
_5\. The Historical Atlas of Native Americans, _by Dr. Ian Barnes  
6\. "Massachuset" – Editors of the Encyclopaeida Britannica, updated by Kathleen Sheetz  
_7\. Paul Revere's Ride, _by David Hackett Fisher (cited by Philbrick)

_Quote Sources:  
_1\. "_The tyranny imposed…" – _Goodreads  
2\. "_Those who have governed…_" – Philbrick (p.42) [John Andrews was a cautiously supportive patriot and Boston merchant who kept a diary throughout the pre-war years that has lent historians great insight into what life in Revolutionary Boston was like.]  
3\. "_Our country is in danger…." – _Forman (p.232)  
4\. "_Britain, united with these colonies…" – _Forman (p.233)  
5\. "_An independence of Great Britain…whereby the unnatural contest…"_ – Philbrick (p.98) and Forman (p.234)

So, this is a lot to process, I know. The American Revolution is a complicated affair, as much about ideology and psychology as it is cause and effect. Of course, so much about history is, but I hope I have been able to capture some of the former methodology for you, and that it was enjoyable. I also hope the words used have made you think.

All the same, you have my gratitude for reading.


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